by Jillian Kent
Madeline nodded. “How are they? Safely away in London, I hope.”
Helga’s face sobered. “No, I’m afraid not. They are sick with smallpox.”
Madeline gasped. “Not the boys!”
Simon dropped the empty wooden bowl he was taking to the sink. “Jack and Danny?” His fists clenched, and he kicked the bowl across the room. “I hate this place!” He stormed outside in a fit of rage.
Madeline drew herself up. “I will care for them, as I cared for my siblings.”
Ravensmoore asked, “Can you show us where they are, Helga?”
“Indeed I will.”
Together Madeline and Devlin followed Helga to where the twins were quarantined. The area stood apart from the asylum, an unused building attached to the main home for the patients.
“Danny, Jack!” Madeline rushed to the boys who lay still and unconscious, both in cots next to each other. A sheen of sweat covered their young faces. The wretched markings of smallpox had reached their necks but were not fully emerged. The pustules threatened the smattering of freckles that scattered across their cheeks and noses.
Ravensmoore placed a hand on each boy’s forehead. “The fever is raging.”
“I will sit with them,” Madeline said. “I know how to care for them.”
Ravensmoore frowned. “I’d rather you let someone else, Madeline. You are still weak.”
“I’m strong enough to care for these two. And you have many others to take care of in the asylum, including your mother. Go to them.”
“If you’re sure. Keep them as cool as you can. If they have difficulty breathing, they will need to have pillows propped behind them.”
“Would the vaccine help at this time?” Madeline asked.
“Once the disease has been contracted, it cannot be turned about by the vaccine. The illness must run its course. The boys are young and strong. They may fare well.”
Madeline’s eyes grew moist. “And they may not. My brother and sister were young and strong too.” She sniffled.
A gentle tapping on the door gained her attention, and the round face of the milkmaid appeared.
“Jenny!” Madeline jumped up.
Jenny tentatively entered the room. “I heard about the twins. Will they be all right?”
“We hope so, Jenny. This is Dr. Grayson.” Madeline stared at Jenny’s hands and touched Ravensmoore’s arm, drawing his attention to them.
“Jenny, how long have you had those spots on your hands?” Ravensmoore asked.
“’Tis the cowpox, doctor. Not smallpox.”
Ravensmoore went to her. “May I see?”
She held the pox-riddled hands in front of her. “It’s not pretty. Comes from the cows.”
“Milkmaids sometimes get the infection from the cows.” Ravensmoore turned her hands over. “Jenny, do the twins help you milk the cows?”
“Every morning, sir.”
Ravensmoore ran to the boys and opened their shirts. After a moment, he announced triumphantly, “The pustules aren’t as big as smallpox. It’s cowpox. The boys don’t have smallpox, Lady Madeline. They should be fine.”
“What are you talking about?” Madeline asked as Jenny went to sit by the boys. “Isn’t this dangerous?”
Ravensmoore returned to her side. “Lady Madeline, it’s cowpox. This is what Jenner uses as his vaccine against smallpox. The boys and Jenny have received their vaccines from the cows.”
Madeline grabbed his hands. “God be praised. Finally, a bit of good news.” She squeezed his hands and gazed at him. “I will stay here with them and keep them comfortable. Now go, Ravensmoore, and attend to your mother.”
He nodded, gratitude pooling deep in his eyes. “I will come back as soon as I can. Be careful, Lady Madeline.”
Their gazes locked for one long moment, then Ravensmoore turned away. Madeline watched as Ravensmoore strode across the brick courtyard heading back to the asylum. Back to the gates of hell.
CHAPTER 19
For I will restore health unto thee, and I will
heal thee of thy wounds, saith the Lord.
—JEREMIAH 30:17
AS HE CROSSED the asylum grounds, Devlin watched thick, black smoke crawl above Ashcroft like charred skeletal fingers of a bony hand. The gruesome business of burning bodies continued. He shivered as he entered the asylum and retraced the maze of hallways to find his mother.
At last he found the small room where she’d spent the night. “How is she, Amanda?”
Humming a winsome tune, Amanda sat holding Elethea’s hand. “Better,” Amanda said, not looking at him. “She’s better.”
Devlin checked his mother’s temperature. “The fever’s broken.”
“Breathing better.” Amanda rocked back and forth on the floor.
Devlin took out his stethoscope and placed it on his mother’s chest. Satisfied with his findings, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Amanda. You might have just saved my mother’s life by sitting with her and keeping her cool.”
“You saved her,” Amanda whispered. “She’s happy now.”
Devlin smiled. “Why don’t we just say we both helped, and the good Lord did the rest.” He so much wanted his mother to survive.
Amanda chanted. “Lord did the rest, Lord did the rest, Lord did the rest.”
“Amanda? Are you all right?”
“Lord did the rest, Lord did the rest, Lord did the rest.”
“You’ve been up too long. Your illness awakes. I want you to go to sleep, Amanda.” He led her to her cot. “Lie down now. My mother will be fine, and you both need to sleep.”
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” she chanted on, giving him no resistance.
“That’s right, sleep.” He tucked her in and watched her quickly fall asleep.
Mrs. Sharpe entered the room. “Doctor, we’ve brought the files we could carry of the patients.” Wiggins stood beside her, intimidating and behemoth.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sharpe, Wiggins. You have the list of those who have died?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. They will tell us who is at risk. We’ll separate the inoculated from those less fortunate. Anyone showing symptoms must be quarantined in another area until we are certain it is smallpox. I’ll write down the names of those who are well but have not yet received the vaccine. We will make sure the patients stay in the area of the asylum best suited for their needs.”
It became clear to Devlin after studying the first few patient records that Sullivan was making a huge personal profit. In one case he admitted a man simply because the man’s family said he disturbed them at night. They couldn’t sleep with all the noise he made rocking in his chair. Sullivan was paid handsomely to be certain the man never left Ashcroft.
Another patient, a woman, entered the asylum at the whim of her family for talking too much. Another, because she enjoyed bathing, and still another, because she prayed aloud three times a day. There were others who appeared legitimate in their need for safe custody.
Devlin picked up the next record and paused. The name on the outside read Lady Ravensmoore. Devlin’s hands trembled. His mother told him how she came to be in Ashcroft. He felt suddenly guilty for what he was about to do, but then he mentally kicked the notion aside. He needed to see what was in this record.
He carefully peeled back the yellowed paper. There was a letter on the first page written in a familiar hand, his father’s. It read:
Dear Sir,
I wish to have my wife committed to Ashcroft Asylum. Lord Vale has assured me she will have everything she needs under your supervision.
This is a most delicate matter.
My wife was found in our forest near the manor house, quite distraught. During a storm, my groomsman discovered her fighting off a hungry wolf. She has not been in her right mind since that wretched night.
I expect you will see to her every comfort. In return for your discretion, I will compensate you. Lord Vale guarantees me that you may be trusted.<
br />
I will deliver her to you on the fourth day of March. Have all necessary paperwork prepared and at my disposal.
Ravensmoore
Devlin’s breath caught. He took in great gulps of air to steady his racing heart. His own father had betrayed him with Vale’s help. And now Lady Madeline and her mother were at risk. The monster must be stopped. Devlin would see to it. God, help me not kill the man with my own hands, he thought, trying to control his rage.
A glimmer of hope crept into his consciousness—an amazing thread of joy lacing its way amid the fire of anger that bloomed. If his mother was not insane, but merely the pawn of his father’s lustful desire for another woman, then he did not carry the seed of insanity. But perhaps his unfaithfulness had already done irreparable harm to her mind. Only time would tell what this place had inflicted on her as well—if she survived.
He shook his head and stood, then went to a basin of water near the doorway and bent over it to splash his face.
“Doctor!” Mrs. Sharpe cried. “Watch out!”
Devlin whirled, and a searing pain sliced through his upper back as the basin clattered to the floor. Looking back, he saw only the dark coat of his assailant as he fled.
Mrs. Sharpe ran to him.
Devlin dropped to his knees. Blood trickled down his back and dripped onto the floor where it mingled with the spilled water, swirling into a macabre painting. The room swam.
“Doctor, lie still.” She knelt beside him.
“Check the… wound,” he gasped. “Get my topcoat. Use it to… stop bleeding.”
Mrs. Sharpe grabbed his topcoat from the floor, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound.
“How… does it look?”
“It’s bleeding heavily.”
Devlin struggled to speak through a veil of fog. “Get Lady Madeline,” he whispered hoarsely, before falling into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 20
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken
me? Why art thou so far from helping me?
—PSALM 22:1
MADELINE WAS JUST wringing out a rag, preparing to place it on Danny’s forehead, when Simon appeared in the doorway. “Mad Maddie.”
She was about to reprimand him for calling her that dreadful name when she saw the expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” Madeline asked, smoothing the cloth across Danny’s brow.
“Mrs. Sharpe needs you. Dr. Grayson has been attacked.”
Terror gripped Madeline as she followed Simon into the asylum.
Madeline gasped when she reached Devlin. Blood was everywhere, splattered on the floor and soaking through the thick topcoat that Mrs. Sharpe used to staunch the blood. She fell to her knees next to him. “What happened? She picked up his limp hand.
“Can you hear me, Dr. Grayson?”
He groaned. Mrs. Sharpe explained, “Someone stabbed him. I didn’t see his face. Just a knife slashing through the air. It happened so fast.”
“Is he going to die?” Simon lifted one of Ravensmoore’s eyelids. His eyes popped open, and Simon jumped back in surprise.
“I told you before. I am not going to die,” Ravensmoore said, his voice hoarse.
Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “I knew you were too stubborn to die.”
“Thank God, you’re awake,” Madeline exclaimed. “Did you see who did this?”
“Don’t know. Be… be careful, Lady Madeline.”
She sucked in her breath when Ravensmoore struggled to his side and Mrs. Sharpe removed the coat, exposing the wound.
Ravensmoore forced a weak grin. “That bad, is it?”
Her eyes examined a deep slash across the upper back. “I suppose it could be worse.” She tried to keep her voice calm and steady. “It is impossible to tell how deep the injury is with all this blood. Simon, can you get us some water to clean the wound?”
Simon scampered away to follow her orders.
Amanda came into the room and stopped, her eyes wide with shock. “Blood everywhere,” she exclaimed. “Just like Papa beating Mama. Blood everywhere.”
“Amanda! Thank God, you are all right.” She hugged the girl close. Ravensmoore turned to look at Amanda and winced. “That’s what happened, isn’t it, Amanda? You were trying to protect your mother.”
Tears streamed down Amanda’s pale face, and this time Madeline wiped away the girl’s tears. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you, Amanda.”
Simon returned with a basin of water and set it near Ravensmoore.
“Thank you, Simon,” Madeline said. “Keep Amanda with you while Mrs. Sharpe and I help the doctor.”
Simon reached for Amanda’s hand. He didn’t speak a word. He just held her hand.
Ravensmoore struggled to rise. “I think I’m strong enough to sit up.”
Madeline laid a hand on his chest. “You must be still, Doctor Grayson. Why is it so hard for a man to take a woman’s advice?” Madeline tore her petticoat and used the strip of cloth to wipe away the worst of the blood. Then she tore a larger piece, wadded it into a bandage, and held it against the gash.
Ravensmoore gave her a lopsided grin that turned quickly into a grimace. “You make a fine nurse, Lady Madeline.”
“And you, sir, make a difficult patient. Kindly tell me how to stop this bleeding.”
“He’ll need to be sewn up,” Mrs. Sharpe said, examining the wound. “I want everyone out of here, except Lady Madeline.”
Simon nodded and led Amanda from the room.
Madeline discarded the blood-soaked cloth, tore another, and held it against the wound for what seemed like forever. “I think it’s beginning to slow.” Madeline lifted the cloth and looked at the gash. “The bleeding is lessening.”
“I will get the necessary instruments from the apothecary. ’Tis just around the corner,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “Remove his shirt so I can access the wound.”
Madeline stood next to Ravensmoore, alone. Self-consciousness gripped her as she fumbled with his bloodstained cravat. “You are so pale.” She gently touched his cheek with the back of her hand.
He placed his hand over hers. “You have gentle fingers.”
“And my fingers need to untie your neck cloth. I am not very experienced with such things.”
“Would you like me to give you directions?” he teased.
Her cheeks warmed. Steadfastly avoiding his gaze, she bent over him and worked at the intricate configuration. Finally she loosened his cravat, and the knots fell away. She removed the strip of cloth, then unbuttoned his shirt and gently eased it from his shoulders and down his arms. Her breath caught. Never had she been so close to a man. Averting her gaze, she gathered up the torn shirt and pressed it to the wound, holding it in place. Keeping her voice neutral, she asked, “Are you doing all right?”
“Never better.” His tone was light, but Madeline could feel the shudders of pain rippling through his back.
Mrs. Sharpe returned with a basket of supplies. First she packed the wound with herbs to prevent infection and then she picked up a needle. “It is time.”
A groan escaped Ravensmoore’s lips. Madeline bent over him. “Dr. Grayson, how awful is the pain?”
“Don’t give me anything,” he whispered to her. “I must stay awake in case I’m needed.”
“Yes.” She rubbed her hands, damp with anxiety, against her skirt and prayed she wouldn’t have to guide the needle through his skin. She looked to Mrs. Sharpe for direction.
Mrs. Sharpe touched Madeline’s shoulder. “I have done this many times. It’s much like the art of needlepoint. Would you like to help?”
“Yes, I would. Dr. Grayson, let me help you sit up.”
“A kind offer, but I think I can manage on my own.” He swayed to one side and nearly fell over.
“Stubborn man.” Madeline prevented his fall. “You have lost too much blood.”
“Stubborn? Who tried to walk into her home after falling from her horse?”
Madeline ignored the
remark and picked up the black bag that held the medical instruments. “Just tell me what to do.”
Mrs. Sharpe explained the procedure while she threaded a needle. “All I need you to do is to hold Dr. Grayson’s hands and keep him still so I can stitch properly,” Mrs. Sharpe said.
Madeline felt sick as she watched Mrs. Sharpe push the needle into the red swollen skin.
Ravensmoore gasped as the needle completed its first stitch. “I cannot believe I said not to give me anything,” he groaned. “It burns like hell’s fire.”
“Do quit trying to be so brave,” Madeline said. “Take the laudanum.” She held the bottle to Ravensmoore’s lips. “Sip slowly. I imagine you know how much to swallow.”
Ravensmoore took a mouthful and swallowed. In a moment Mrs. Sharpe resumed sewing. Madeline watched in amazement as the woman skillfully sewed the wound together. The gash soon turned into a neat, well-stitched line.
“I am almost finished,” Mrs. Sharpe said, “but you must rest. The wound, although not terribly deep, will be uncomfortable. You need time to heal.”
Madeline held the bottle of laudanum to his lips again. “It may be best to take one more sip.”
He smiled, followed her instructions, then caught and held her gaze. “Thank you.” His eyes spoke more than the simple words conveyed.
Tying off the last stitch, Mrs. Sharpe let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “It is done.” She bandaged the wound. “Try not to sleep on your back. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other patients that need attention. There is so much yet to do.” She left the room.
“Lady Madeline,” Devlin said, catching her hand, “you must send for Dr. Langford and Melton.”
“Of course,” Madeline reassured him. She watched Ravensmoore drift off to exhausted sleep. He looked so vulnerable, not nearly so strong and determined as when he was awake. She must be strong. Very strong, because their lives—and the life of her mother— depended on it.
Madeline left the room and found one of the male keepers. “Have you had the vaccine?” He nodded.